When Buffy (Judi Polson), the wife of ex-President Dan Citizen (Eric Diamond) catches hubby with his head up his mistress's dress, Dan emerges and spits out a "hairy bush of truth." Makes you ponder.
Buffy doesn't just eat cockroaches. She gorges on people, sending out her cater-slut for more Kentucky fried Chicano (it's finger lickin').
Natasha, the mistress (Heidi Kolman), shows us her tits as she plays a Russian strip-teasing cheerleader shouting "Rah-rah-rah! Sis-boom-bah! Now Natasha take off bra!"
Bill Weeden, who played Dr. Finger, the mad-gynecologist, best conquered the style of the piece - a sort of obscene "Three Stooges" sci-fi comedy from hell.
Because of a sex mix-up, Grody (Ric Rearon), Finger's protege, becomes "a cross-dressing sissy-boy" turned lesbian who clips coupons and still likes girls. Rearon's sex act with a Big Mac (and secret sauce) was inspired.
Kate Savage displayed admirable versatility in her three roles.
Tim Wilkins also did well with his several male and female parts. But when he gets bewildered in his monologue at play's end by government and God, the comedy threatens to make a point.
Fear not. With a marriage ceremony in which the bride holds the groom's penis; with a drop-kicked baby; with someone getting literally shit-faced; or with a pregnant woman's water breaking and flowing, the evening could righteously be described as bawdy, frantic, goofy, grossed-out, in the worst possible taste, obscene, outrageous, perverse, puerile, silly, stupid, and often hilariously funny - with no redeeming features whatsoever.
The set by Julie Lang - that is, her unidentifiable graffiti panel - made no more sense than the play did. And many things went bump in the night in chaotic scene changes, during one of which an actor was heard to whisper: "Gross!"
Costumes and wigs suited the play, and lights and sound by George Cameron punctuated the series of blackout scenes. The musical interludes were ugly and repetitious, but microphones were used creatively to simulate the sounds of simulated sex and all the bodily functions to which one could possibly not want to listen.
If wannabe cult comedies are your cup of vomit, have we gotta show for you! Just steer clear of the front row.
Copyright 1999 Marshall Yaeger